


The Wolf King

by catterhey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Illnesses, Multi, Past Abuse, Prejudice, Prostitution, Secrets, Slavery, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catterhey/pseuds/catterhey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He moves closer to Derek, so close he can feel the werewolf’s warm breath on his cheek. Derek’s eyes widen. “We can go somewhere private,” Stiles murmurs, low and intimate. “Just you and me.”</p><p>Stiles is a slave in a brothel in Beacon Hills, near the border between the human and werewolf kingdoms. A war between the two peoples has been raging for three years. Then the werewolves win, and Stiles’ life will never be the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... it's not like we needed another one of these. And others have already done it better. But! I couldn't help myself. Unbeta'd, read at your own risk. Will keep adding tags as the story progresses. Please mind the tags - this story gets a bit dark.

Stiles is face-down on the coverlet getting fucked when he hears the news.

The cock in his ass stills, mid-thrust, and Stiles takes the opportunity to shift his knees, release some of the tension in his back.

“Did you hear that?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the mattress and wriggles his hips. “Yeah baby, I heard it.” This is his fifth customer tonight and it’s already been taking longer than it should. “It’s your big co-”

“Shut up, whore.” And he’s pulling out, oh shit. Stiles twists around in flash, ready to appease the man- he’s been here before, but Stiles forgot his name- who is now opening the door, fuck. Stiles scrambles off the bed to follow him out and that’s when he really registers it.

It’s a swell of sound, a buzz running through the walls of the brothel, and it doesn’t take Stiles long to figure out the words.

“The war! The war is over!”

Stiles watches as more and more people stumble out of their rooms, half-naked clients and whores with mussed hair, shocked out of sex by the clamor rising from the street. Soon everyone is chiming in, cheering. Stiles catches Erica’s eyes across the landing, and she gives him a little grin. It’s been three years-

“Well what do you know!” Stiles’ client grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him back inside the room with unnecessary force. “This calls for a fucking celebration!” He laughs, and Stiles knees hit the bed just as the blunt tip of the the man’s cock nudges against his ass. Stiles spreads his legs and bends over, lets him push back in. Who even cares? War or no war, it’s not as if Stiles isn’t going to get fucked anyway.

It's in the early hours of the morning when most of the customers have tottered home, drunk and sated, and Stiles is cleaning the come from between his thighs that he realizes the depths of his mistake. The shouts outside are no longer joyful.

“Werewolves!”

Stiles hears the clanging of steel on steel, gurgling cries, followed by loud, inhuman growls. He sprints downstairs, only to find Mistress Harris screaming at the top of her lungs. The door is broken open, wood splinters everywhere, and three - creatures - with yellow eyes are snarling, bloody swords raised, fangs glistening. A few whores are crying, huddled in the corner, and Stiles barely has time to think before he’s yelling over Mistress Harris’ wails, “This is a fuck-house!”

Three sets of furious eyes turn to glare at him, and they take a step forward, like wild dogs preparing to lunge. Stiles raises his hands in the air and shouts again, “We’re whores - prostitutes! We don’t have any weapons!” His heart is pounding out of his chest but he doesn’t look away from the wolves. After an age - or a few seconds, Stiles can’t really tell- one of the three murmurs something unintelligible to the others and they back out slowly, lowering their swords. Then they’re out the door, and Stiles collapses to the ground.

Mistress Harris rushes to his side, and Stiles is vaguely aware of her shrieking something at him, but his heart is still beating too fast and he can barely breathe. He senses a hand on his shoulder and then someone is stroking his hair. He has only time for one, terrified thought before he blacks out.

The war is over. But the werewolves have won.

\-------———-

Stiles wakes up in Erica’s bed, to the sound of Erica’s soft hums and the clash of battle thrumming from beyond the brothel walls.

“Mistress Harris barricaded what’s left of the door,” she says, sitting beside him. “We have to stay in our rooms until she says it's safe.”

They wait.

The howling starts at nightfall. Stiles shudders and reaches for Erica. She’s pale in the candlelight and grabs his hand like a lifeline. They stare at each other in silence as the howling goes on, punctuated by a few hoarse, human screams. Stiles can’t close eyes. They wait some more.

It goes on until mid-afternoon of the second day, when the noise outside finally subsides. Stiles thinks it’s the newfound silence that’s going to break him until, finally, he hears Mistress Harris knock on Erica’s door.

“Come out. We’re meeting in the parlor.”

The whores gather downstairs, pale and drawn. The parlor is a large, plush room that covers most of the brothel’s ground floor and smells permanently of beer and sex. It’s where customers come to drink and flirt with the whores before moving somewhere more private, though Stiles has on several occasions been fucked over the arms of some of these chairs, and one memorable time, spread out on one of the tables. Stiles slumps on one of the soft divans and Erica slides in next to him, her thigh settling comfortingly against his.

Mistress Harris’s face is shockingly bare, her bun askew.

“They’re clearing the bodies,” she announces without preamble. “Anyone who didn’t resist is still alive. But most of our soldiers are - gone.” Her voice breaks on the last, though Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because she genuinely cares about the soldiers’ lives, or if, more likely, she’s mourning the loss of their coin. Stiles can’t say he’s exactly sorry. Ever since the war began three years ago, Stiles’ workload has tripled. Beacon Hills is not far from the border and the fighting, and a convenient distance away for the soldiers to get a quick fuck. Maybe if they hadn’t spent so much time fucking and drinking, Stiles thinks, they might have put up more of a fight against the Wolf King's forces. 

Anthea is sobbing. Poor, stupid Anthea. She’d fallen for one of the brutes, fancied herself in love or something. Stiles rolls his eyes, and catches Erica’s frown.

Stiles is aware he’s being cruel. He just has no idea how to stop. Shock, his mind supplies helpfully. You’re in shock.

Mistress Harris is going on, so Stiles tries to focus.

“- no trouble, from any of you, is that clear? If a werewolf comes in here, you will bend over and take his cock, or you’ll answer to me.”

No one protests, but no one is nodding either. Mistress Harris looks over the crowd of twenty or so silent, blank faces.

“I’m not expecting it to be easy. We’ve all heard the stories,” she frowns, and her voice hardens. “But we have to survive - no, we _will_ survive. And to do that, we keep them happy. Do you understand?”

Her hand hovers over the small whip at her skirt belt. The threat lies heavy and familiar in the air, prompting a rush of muttered “Yes, Mistress.” Stiles isn’t as friendly with the whip as some - he’d been broken in long before he was sold to Mistress Harris’ brothel - but he’s seen how brutal she can be if provoked. He murmurs his agreement with the others. He knows it’s not Mistress’s whip they need to be afraid of. Stiles tries hard not to think about three werewolves, swords stained with blood, standing right there in the doorway. Better a wolf cock than being dead.

“Good. Now get ready. We’re open for business tonight.”

Stiles shuffles upstairs with the others and strips off his tunic in his room. He peers at the bucket of water by the bed, untouched since yesterday and decides it's still mostly clean. He dips his cloth in the water and drags it between his thighs, scrubbing off the last flakes of come. He doesn’t notice Erica coming in at first, naked and holding her own bucket. She closes the door behind her and sets the water next to Stiles.

“Turn around,” she says, taking the rag from his hands. He shivers when she washes the sweat from his shoulders and cold water trickles down his back. She’s not exactly rough, just insistent, thorough, as she starts scrubbing down his back. When she’s done she snaps the cloth against his ass and Stiles yelps.

“That’s for almost getting yourself killed yesterday,” she says. She’s smiling, but her eyes are tense at the corners. Everyone in the brothel knows Stiles and Erica are friends. Some even suspect they’re lovers, though Stiles doesn’t think of her that way. Even if he did, he would never act on it. She doesn’t need that from him, and he certainly has nothing to offer her except scars and dirt. But he does love her. And he can tell that he’s scared her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet. He bends down to pick up the wash cloth draped over the rim of her bucket, and she turns around, wordless. He’s much more gentle, every sweep against her sallow skin an apology. As he washes her, he can’t help but notice that the knobs of her spine and her ribs stick out more than usual.

Nobody knows what’s wrong with her. Her skin has always had a sickly hue and about once a month, she convulses. She can mostly tell when an attack is coming on - the metallic taste in her mouth, she told Stiles once - so Mistress Harris lets her work, as long as she keeps out of sight when she’s unwell. Stiles has always been secretly grateful to Mistress Harris for it, as most people would have turned Erica out to starve.

Deep down they both know that she’s going to die. No matter how much of his food Stiles shares with her, every year she gets thinner. And Stiles is usually working when Erica locks herself in her room but he knows that her convulsions are getting longer, worse.

Stiles drop the cloth and rests his head against her shoulder. They stand there a moment, just breathing, before Erica shrugs him off.

“So," she says. "What do you think wolf cock tastes like?”

Stiles groans. “Erica, no.”

“Think about it! Those giant, beast-sized-”

Stiles tries to whip her with the washcloth, but she dances out of his reach, giggling. Then she stops.

“Wait. Do you think they’re furry?”

“No!” Stiles yells. They look at each other, eyes wide, and burst out laughing.

\----———

Stiles decides to wear one of his nicest tunics, the one that shows his nipples. He’s rouged them and his lips, and he’s lined his eyes, just a little. Some whores play the woman, but Stiles has never been really good at that. Even though he’s nearing twenty, he’s lanky enough that he can still pass for a boy on the cusp of manhood, so he keeps his hair short and plays the growing boy-whore. He can look young enough to play the innocent, or cocky enough to deserve a beating, filthy enough for a rough fuck. Versatile, that’s Stiles. And it works - on humans, at least. He’s not sure what effect it will have on wolves.

The parlor is quiet. Stiles breath catches when he sees about two dozen men and women crowded near the doorway, completely silent. There are no fangs or crazy eyes in sight, but Stiles _knows_. They’re not dressed in armor, only dark britches and thick leather vests, but Stiles can tell they’re warriors from their stance and the way their eyes dart around the room and anyway, he’s been fucked by enough soldiers to recognize one when he sees one. But unlike most human soldiers, the werewolves are incredibly, unilaterally built. Stiles can’t see a single paunch among the entire lot. Realizing he’s stopped halfway down the stairs to stare, Stiles quickly gets a move on and joins the others, who are keeping their distance and watching the wolves with wary eyes.

Mistress Harris, looking like her normal maquillaged self, is deep in conversation with two men. One, brown-skinned with large eyes and a strong jaw, is doing most of the talking, speaking in low tones and giving the occasional placating gesture. He’s tall, and looks as solid as a rock. The other is the same height only pale, with thick, frowning eyebrows. He doesn’t interrupt, looking for all the world like a sullen subordinate. Probably doesn’t approve of brothels, Stiles thinks, but can’t do anything about it.

Both the whores and the soldiers wait in suspended silence as the deliberations go on, until finally, the officer hands over a fat purse of coin to Mistress Harris, while thick eyebrows’ scowl deepens. Mistress Harris grins. “I hope you’ll find our establishment most welcoming, Captain Boyd,” she says, loudly.

It’s a cue and a warning all at once. The whores snap into action, smiling and simpering and making their approach. The wolves look uncertainly about until their Captain gives a decisive nod. The parlor slowly fills with the sounds of soft giggles and idle chatter as whores and wolves begin to flirt.

Stiles takes a deep breath and lets his body slide into place, lips curved in a smirk, hip tilted to the side, eyes half-lidded and wanting. A few feet away, Erica cups her breasts and winks straight at Captain Boyd. Naturally, she has to choose the highest-ranking, probably most dangerous man in the room. And naturally, because it’s Erica, Captain Boyd doesn’t waste any time approaching her, sour-faced lackey in tow.

His hand hovers uncertainly around her face, as if he wants to touch her but doesn’t know how, and Stiles watches in amusement as Erica grabs it and places it right on her breasts. Captain Boyd blushes, and Erica’s grin widens. And that’s when Stiles notices dark eyebrows looking at him. _Interesting._

He saunters toward him, swaying his hips, and catches Erica’s smirk. Unfortunately, so does her customer, who whips his head to stare at Stiles, stopping him in his tracks. He’s suddenly reminded of fangs and yellow eyes and blood and tries not to panic. Maybe werewolves don’t like men fucking men? A nervous glance around the room shows that’s not the case. Ok, maybe Captain Boyd doesn’t like the look of Stiles. He can appreciate that, that’s fine. He starts to back away, slowly, when the Captain gives a mischievous and thankfully fangless grin.

“Would you mind taking care of my good man Derek?” he asks, as if that hasn’t been Stiles plan all along. He turns to his subordinate - Derek - who scowls. “How about it, Derek?” Captain Boyd asks lightly, and Stiles isn’t imagining it, there’s an underlying current of _something_ between the Captain and Derek, underneath that good-natured teasing.

Derek’s eyebrows are going to swallow his eyeballs any minute now, but he doesn’t refuse. When he turns to Stiles, his frown is more assessing than aggressive. If Stiles weren’t used to all sorts of stares, the intensity of it might have made him uncomfortable. As it is, he gives a little smirk, and somewhat gracefully sidesteps Erica and her customer to get closer to Derek. He’s still a bit too shaky to speak, so instead he very deliberately runs his hand up Derek’s arm. Derek’s breath catches, but the muscles in his arm remain locked in place. Too still. A virgin? Unlikely, he looks even older than Stiles. Maybe he doesn’t like being in public. 

He moves closer to Derek, so close he can feel the werewolf’s warm breath on his cheek. Derek’s eyes widen. “We can go somewhere private,” Stiles murmurs, low and intimate. “Just you and me.”

Derek doesn’t answer at first, just takes a deep breath like he’s - _smelling_ Stiles. Then he nods, once.

Stiles smiles, and slowly, gently, takes Derek’s hand. “Come with me,” he says.

It’s much louder now in the parlor, people shouting, and laughing, and a few already fucking. Erica and Captain Boyd are gone, probably upstairs.

Derek follows him up to his room without a word. He watches as Stiles shuts the door behind them, muffling the noise.

“That's better,” Stiles says, and sidles up to Derek. “Want me to take this off?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so late... here's some shameless smut?

Derek isn’t even looking at him. His eyes are darting from the bed to the rickety chair in the corner to the lone bucket, and back again, shoulders up, arms still tense, and no tent below his belt. Stiles tries to see what he’s seeing, tries to translate chipped corners and greying floorboards and peeling walls into something threatening. It doesn’t really work. There isn’t even a window - a fact Stiles often laments in the summer. Derek finally seems to come to the obvious conclusion that no one else can fit inside this room, let alone hide in it, and turns back to Stiles, not even trying to look guilty. Stiles could be offended, but he has a job to do.

“We really are alone,” he says anyway, just in case he isn’t convinced, and takes off his tunic.

Derek frowns, but before he can say anything Stiles shifts closer and slides one hand up Derek’s shirt- finely-made- and another down to his belt. He’s not nervous, he’s not, because he’s done this before just about a million times. Only difference is this time it’s with a werewolf, half-man half-beast of legend, enemies of humans since time immemorial who just yesterday finished killing most of Stiles’ regular customers.

But Stiles is definitely not thinking about that. He is almost, but not quite, as tall as Derek so he only has to bend his head a little to nuzzle his neck. Derek’s breath catches and his whole body jerks forward. Stiles trails kisses up and down his neck as one hand unbuttons Derek’s shirt and the other undoes his belt. He palms the front of Derek’s trousers, and yes, good, he’s getting hard. Stiles let’s out a breathy little moan, and nips at Derek’s collar bone. And finds himself on the floor staring up at Derek, whose belt is on the floor and whose shirt is unbuttoned and whose scowl has returned full force.

Great, good job, he’s offended him. You’ve offended the fucking werewolf, _Stiles_.

“Don’t do that.”

Stiles goes to his knees and lowers his head.

“O- Ok.”

He waits, but nothing else happens. He dares to glance up again and finds Derek staring back at him, shifting nervously.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says a little less shakily. “I’ve never been with a wolf- werewolf before, I meant no offense.”

After a few uncomfortable beats of silence, Derek nods, and Stiles thinks it’s safe enough to ask, “Would you like to sit on the bed?”

Derek hesitates, then goes to sit. Stiles shuffles forward on his knees until he’s between Derek’s legs. His hands trace the strong muscles in Derek’s calves, his thighs, before they reach the waistband of his trousers. Derek is biting his lip, his erection straining against the fabric, a not inconsiderable bulge. Stiles bends his head and presses his mouth against his crotch and Derek entire body clenches.

“May I?” Stiles breathes, cautious, because actually touching a wolf’s genitals without asking seems dangerous, and the last thing he wants is to set Derek off again.

Another silence before Derek’s grits out a terse “Yes”, so Stiles uses his teeth to undo the buttons. Suddenly Derek’s cock is there, large and hard, and - thank the gods- no more furrier than a human’s. Stiles is pleasantly surprised by Derek’s clean smell, unsoured by piss or stale sweat or a stubborn lack of soap.

“Gods you’re big,” he murmurs, because he hasn’t yet met a man who didn’t like to be told how large he was. He huffs out a few warm breaths, and Derek’s cock twitches.

Slowly, Stiles brings his lips to kiss the tip of Derek’s cock, and lap at the head. Derek twitches like he's been burned, but he stays silent. His fists are clenching the coverlet, not Stiles’ hair, and Stiles wonders how one can be so turned on and so repressed at the same time. Derek is like a taut string about to snap, and Stiles does not want to see that happen, so he opens his mouth and lets Derek’s prick slide against his tongue and into his throat, until Stiles nose is nestled in the thick patch of Derek’s hair, Derek’s balls stroking his chin. He swallows a couple of times, and feels Derek shudder. He tastes like he smells, salty and clean.

After that, it’s habit, aside from the quasi-silence. Nothing but the wet sounds of Derek’s cock sinking in and out of his lips, Derek’s harsh breathing, and Stiles’ occasional muffled moan. Few ever care about Stiles’ prick - he hasn’t been asked to use it in a while - but many men like the idea of the whore who always wants cock. If they don’t, that’s usually made clear the minute the customer steps into the room, and Stiles ends those nights hoarse and bruised. Stiles has learned too that the vibrations can sometimes speed things along. 

Derek’s not choking him, and he’s not speaking, and the only point of contact between them is Stiles’ lips around his cock. Stiles should just let it lie, he knows, but he can’t help himself. He brings his right hand to cup Derek’s balls just as he twists his tongue around the head in one of his more skillful tricks. Derek’s hands jump to Stiles’ hair, and he grunts. Stiles lets the cock plunge back into his throat, and Derek lets out a groan of pleasure, fingers tightening on the short strands of his hair. It feels like some kind of victory. 

Then Derek’s hands clench and pull Stiles off his cock with a loud pop. Stiles gapes at him, lips swollen and tingling, before he recovers himself quickly.

He clambers onto the bed and lowers himself onto his elbows.

“I want you in me,” he breathes, as he spreads his knees wide, and knows it’s the right response when Derek is suddenly there, completely naked - how did that happen so quickly?- cock flush against his ass, hands squeezing his hips.

“Please,” he moans, and pushes back against Derek’s cock.

“Do you - need-“ Derek’s voice comes out low and halting, like he’s forgotten how to speak.

It barely takes a second before Stiles figures out what he means. “No, no, I’m ready. Please.”

There’s a strangled moan and an incoherent mutter that sounds like _'next time'_ , before Derek’s pushes inside him. He’s slow at first, but Stiles is well-oiled and relaxed, and he bears down until Derek bottoms out. Stiles swears he feels a press of something sharp against his sides, but before he can fully register it the sensation disappears, and there’s only Derek’s cock, rocking him against the mattress with deep, steady strokes. Stiles clenches around him, and rolls his hips to match Derek’s rhythm, punctuating it with little whines of pleasure. Derek still doesn’t say much, but his breath is coming quicker than before, and his grip is painfully tight on Stiles’ hips. He’ll likely bruise.

It goes on for some time, longer than usual especially after a thorough bout of cocksucking, and Stiles is somewhat impressed with Derek’s stamina. He’ll have to check with Erica later and see whether it’s a common werewolf trait. He suspects it is.  

Stiles elbows are stinging from rubbing against the coverlet and his ass is beginning to sore when Derek’s fucking becomes more frantic, almost desperate. He pounds into Stiles, hips slapping against his ass, and-

“Fuck!”

It’s like the word’s been ripped out of him. He jerks inside Stiles, once, twice, and Stiles greets the familiar feeling of warmth with a little relief. Derek shudders as he slips out of Stiles, slumping on the mattress with a heavy thump. He lays there on his back, catching his breath and staring at the ceiling. Stiles rolls off the bed and heads for the bucket. He feels Derek tracking his movements as he dips a clean rag into the water and comes back to the bed. He hovers uncertainly over Derek, who’s still watching him, eyes half-lidded, before bringing the rag to Derek’s limp cock, glistening with oil and come. He cleans him gently, movements slow and deliberate. When he’s finished, he gives himself a perfunctory wipe before dropping the rag on the floor, and climbing back onto the bed. He lies on his side, facing Derek, and waits.

Sometimes they leave right away, but sometimes they like to stay and talk.

Derek, as seems to be his wont, is silent, until-

“I’ve never- with a human man,” he says, not meeting Stiles’ gaze. “Was it too rough?” He gestures vaguely at Stiles’ lower body.

Stiles is taken aback, several thoughts flitting in his head in quick succession, mainly, had he wanted Stiles to come, and if so, why hadn’t he touched his cock? And, does that mean he’s been with a human woman before? Or never with any human at all and how was that even possible?

Luckily he has a standard response for the first question, "I can't always come, downside of the profession," and then, because he's _completely_ _stupid_ , he adds, “But I thought werewolves kept human slaves.”

That’s why they raid the border, the soldiers used to say, that’s how the war started. To get human slaves to fuck and to serve them and to kill for sport. Because they hate us. And the Wolf King hates humans most of all.

Derek’s eyes widen, twisting his body to face Stiles. “What? Who told you that?”

Before Stiles can even begin to answer, Derek scowls. “No, don’t tell me. You humans will invent any lie to make my people into monsters.”

Stiles makes sure to remain very still. This is going badly, he shouldn’t have spoken, why did you open your mouth, you idiot-

His thoughts get cut off when Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and asks, “Why are you so afraid?”

“I- I’m not,” he protests, weakly.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Derek says. “I know you’re afraid.”

At that, Stiles’ heart almost seizes in his chest, and he freezes. Takes a deep breath, tries to even his fucking heartbeat. Derek’s eyes are boring into his, like he’s looking for an earnest answer to his question, like it isn’t fucking obvious why Stiles should be afraid.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, carefully. “I’m- you’re the first werewolf I’ve ever spoken to.”

He gazes at Stiles, as if searching for something in his face. “We’re not monsters.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid of moving, of breathing, of his heart giving him away. Derek sighs, and gets off the bed. He begins to pick his clothes off the floor and put them on, face hidden from Stiles’ view. The silence has turned heavy, awkward. Stiles feels strange. He was supposed to keep the werewolves happy, and instead he’s made the company’s second-in-command angry. What if he tells Captain Boyd, what then? But more than that, Stiles feels uncomfortably hollow, like he's failed to pass some kind of test. As if Derek has found him wanting.

Stiles doesn’t know why he thinks that, it’s not as if his _real_ opinion about anything has mattered to anyone aside from Erica before. But Derek still isn’t looking at him, and as he finishes buttoning up his shirt the urge to say something, anything, becomes overwhelming.

“I am afraid,” Stiles says. Derek’s hands pause on the last button, but he doesn’t look up.

“But it’s not because of you - not you, specifically.” Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles forges on. "I told you I’ve never spoken to a werewolf before, but that’s not- that’s not exactly true.”

Derek does look up at that.

"They came to the brothel-"  
  
"I know that was you."

What? "You-you know?"

Derek nods, looking impatient. "Yes, that's why I wanted- because you tried to speak to them, I thought you must be different, brave-"

"I'm not-"

"You weren't afraid when we were fucking," Derek says, accusing.

"That's- different," Stiles says, helplessly. How can he explain _that_ without offending him worse?

Derek turns his back, like he's finished with the conversation, and it goes against Stiles every self-preservation instinct as a whore and a slave to insist, but-

"Please listen," Stiles blurts, and Derek stops, hand on the door, and the words come rushing out of Stiles' mouth.

"My whole life I've heard stories about wolves- werewolves- and then with the war I heard more, and yesterday I saw your people for the first time trying to kill us, with blood and swords, and- and _fangs,_ and most of my customers are _dead_ , and I really don't know what's true and what isn't, how could I-" He pauses to catch his breath. Derek's eyes are focused on Stiles now, intent, like he's concentrating on every word and more. His heartbeat?

"I'm willing to learn. The truth, I mean."

Derek stays silent, staring, and Stiles tries not to squirm. There's nothing sexual about it, it's as if he's trying to unearth something deep inside him with his eyes, something Stiles isn't sure even exists.

"All right," Derek says finally, solemnly. "I understand."

Stiles lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in, and tries for a small smile.

To his utter shock, Derek _blushes_.

"I enjoyed-" he waves his arm at Stiles, ducking his head slightly, "you."

And with that, he hurries out of the room, leaving Stiles completely speechless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slower chapter, and a break from our favorite couple. Also, this is my first chaptered fic and I'm super humbled by your encouragement and kind comments. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!

“He said I smelled wrong.”

“What?” Stiles shouts, indignant.

Erica smiles. “I know.”

They’re sitting at one of the wooden tables in the parlor, picking at their food. Danny had turned up this morning, bruised but unharmed, and he'd left with Mistress Harris to see if the baker had reopened shop. In the meantime, everyone is stuck eating the last of the stale bread and what's left of the cheese.

“Then he asked me if I was sick, said wolves can smell sickness-"

Stiles sighs. “Of course they can. Gods, what _can’t_ they do-"

“And then,” Erica goes on, with a pointed look so Stiles shuts up, “I told him I wasn’t diseased, that it was safe to fuck me, and he got this look on his face.”

“Like he didn’t believe you?” Stiles decides he doesn’t like Captain Boyd at all.

Erica shakes her head. “No, like- I’m not sure. Like I was missing the point, maybe.”

“So did he fuck you?”

“Eventually.” She grins. “There was no fur on his cock, by the way.”

“Well, yeah. If any of them had fur, I’m sure we’d have heard a lot more screaming last night.”

They both laugh.

“So…” Stiles prompts.

“So?” Erica’s not meeting his eyes, and she only ever does that when she’s sick or hurt.

Stiles feels his heart plummet. “Did he hurt you?” There’s a quiet rage in his voice.

Erica’s eyes widen. “No, no, Stiles- that’s not- No.”

Stiles takes a moment to breathe out, and then runs a few likely scenarios in his head. Erica’s looking at him now, exasperated.

“Stop thinking so hard,” she says, then she sighs, like she knows it’s a losing battle. Which it is.

“It was good, all right? Very good.” She says, and becomes very interested in pulling apart her last bite of bread.

Stiles is curious. He doesn’t think this has ever happened before. Over the years, there have been some regular customers who have coddled Erica, promised to buy her out of the brothel, maybe some who even liked to lick her cunt, albeit briefly, but there hasn’t, in all the years he’s known her, been a customer who’s made her look like this.

He waits, though, until she’s ready to speak, and finally she does.

“I came twice,” she mutters. “And he was very- gentle.”

“Oh.”

“It’s stupid!” She slams her hand on the table, startling Stiles and several others nearby. “I shouldn’t- it’s not important.”

He doesn’t really know why he says, “He might not even come back.” Reassurance?

But the look on Erica’s face makes him wish he hadn’t. She gets up so quickly she knocks over the wooden stool she’d been sitting on.

“Don’t you think I know that, Stiles?” she hisses, fists clenched, and storms off, running back up the stairs and out of sight.

Stile stares after her, shocked, until he hears a snicker from the divan.

“Lovebirds have a fight?”

It’s Anthea, snide and bitter and chewing with her mouth open, as usual.

“Shut up.” He says, coldly, and picks up his and Erica’s plates. “And close your fucking mouth when you eat.”

“Well excuse me, princess!” She calls out, as Stiles sweeps past her to the kitchen.

There’s a bucket of water, fresh from the pump, and some soap by the window. He scrubs off the crumbs and the grease from the cheese, barely taking note of the afternoon sunshine streaming in from the window, the reason why this tiny kitchen is his favorite place in the brothel. He can’t stop thinking of the spark in Erica’s eyes when she’d called Captain Boyd gentle. Stiles isn’t really familiar with the feeling himself, but it had looked like - hope. And that fucking terrifies him.

———————————-

Erica avoids him for the rest of the afternoon. She doesn’t sit next to him when the whores gather into the parlor for the second day in a row, so that Mistress Harris can tell them that no, the baker isn’t dead and neither is the miller, but some of the harvest burned during the fighting, so they have prioritized feeding their own families and selling to the respectable citizens of Beacon Hills before they give her anything.

“What about the grocer?” One of the whores asks, the worry in his voice clear. Some of the whores here were born slaves like Stiles, whose masters have always fed him unless they wanted to punish him, but many of them aren’t. Many, like Anthea, are indentured servants, who sold themselves to Mistress Harris for the price of regular meals, shelter, and a small cut of the profits to return to their families or spend as they choose. They’ve known poverty and starvation and Stiles understands why they aren’t eager for Mistress Harris’ news.

“I’ve negotiated a deal with Master Jacob.”

That’s good. Because if she can’t feed her whores, she'll lose all her indentured servants. Then she might not be able to afford to keep Stiles and the rest of the slaves, even if she doesn’t feed them much. In which case she’d have to sell them, and Stiles does not, _does not_ want that to happen. To be separated from Erica, for the first time in five years, he wouldn’t- he couldn’t-

“Stiles!”

Someone is calling him, and he snaps to attention. Everyone is staring at him, some pitying, some smirking, and Mistress Harris’ mouth is pinched.

Stiles stands up. “I’m sorry, Mistress. I wasn’t listening.”

“Yes, that much is clear.” Stiles does his best to look contrite. He catches a glance of Danny, leaning against the bar and frowning, but not at him. He tries not to panic.

“Master Jacob has agreed to keep us supplied, for an additional _fee_.”

Oh. “Me?”

“I’ve allowed him your services every night this week, until we find a better solution.”

Stiles nods. The grocer is a hard man, a widower who comes here on occasion when he can spare the coin. He’s not particularly violent, but he likes to remind Stiles of his place. Good thing Stiles knows his place, has known it for a while. A part of Stiles is strangely disappointed, but before he can figure out why, he pushes the feeling away. It’s nonsense, anyway.

“As I’ve learned today, our remaining human clientele are no longer comfortable coming here as long as we continue to service wolves. Which means Master Jacob wants you in his own bed.”

That gives Stiles pause, and sparks a few unhappy mutters from the others. Leaving the brothel is a privilege for the slaves and happens rarely, and only with Danny or sometimes the Mistress to supervise. Stiles knows Beacon Hills, knows the town, knows a fair amount of its inhabitants. But there have been fewer and fewer outings since the war began. He wonders what Beacon Hills looks like now.

“As for the werewolves,” she continues, and Stiles sits down. He spots Erica, curled on a chair, and she gives him a small, encouraging smile. Forgiven, then. Stiles smiles back, relieved.

“Captain Boyd was very pleased with our service,” she nods to Erica, amidst several snickers, “And will be sending more companies of werewolves our way. Well done, all.” She smiles, and it looks genuine.

“One more matter. You may have noticed that you only serviced one werewolf each, yesterday.” There are a few nods- that was unusual, though it had given Stiles the rest of the night to mull over Derek and what they’d said to each other, to no apparent conclusion. “Captain Boyd has informed me that werewolves do not like to share, so you will only entertain one of them a night.”

There are a few halfhearted protests from the indentured, who might lose some coin, however meager. Mistress Harris holds up a hand.

“That is why,” she says loudly and pointedly, “I’ve negotiated a higher fee for each of you. It’s not ideal, but it will have to do until we know what happens next, to all of us.”

She clears her throat. “Stiles, come here. Everyone else, dismissed.”

Mistress Harris waits until everyone has left, until it’s just her, Danny, and Stiles, and puts her hands on his shoulders.

“Stiles,” she says, and tightens her grip. “I can’t stress how important it is that you please Master Jacob. Do you understand?”

“Mistress, I’ll please him.”

She goes on as if she hasn’t heard him. “Danny will accompany you to and from his house. You’re not to speak with anyone, and if someone approaches you, you keep walking. There’s not much love for the brothel at the moment and the last thing I need is for you to get hurt.”

She squeezes his shoulders again, and Stiles is touched by her worried frown.

“I won’t, Mistress, I promise.” That seems to settle her a little bit.

“Good boy.” She gestures to Danny, who still looks unhappy at the situation. “Get ready. Danny will wait for you.”

Stiles obeys.

———————————-

The evening light is just about fading, crescent moon already shining amid the darkening blue. Stiles is lucky for the early autumn warmth, otherwise he would likely be freezing in his most sober tunic, which is still too short and leaves half his arms and most of his legs uncovered. The last time he was outside it had been the end of winter, he remembers, and he’d walked around the melting snow wrapped in a woolen blanket Danny had given him, looking like some kind of street urchin. He must have grown, because his shoes feel tight, or maybe his feet got too used to being bare.

Danny is a silent companion beside him in the deserted streets. The few people they cross paths with shoot him mistrustful glares.

It’s about a fifteen minute walk to reach the grocer, who lives in the center of town above his shop, and Stiles savors every minute of it. He’s glad that Danny isn’t talking, because it gives him the chance to concentrate on anything he wants, like the softly blowing leaves, and the feel of the breeze in his hair. It’s only until they reach the market square that Stiles understands what the past few nights have wrought. There are a several werewolves here, recognizable for their stance and how they seem to be keeping watch on every human in their sight, many of whom are closing their shops, and few of whom are talking to each other.

The silence is unnerving, but what makes Stiles stop in his tracks is the state of the houses, doors reduced to splinters or boarded up as best as possible, bits of broken furniture and crockery spilling out. With a shudder, he makes out the dark stains covering some of the whitewashed walls, and looking closer, some of the cobblestones around his feet. Some are black, as if someone tried to torch the entire square, but others are of a different kind. Though the bodies have been cleared, several people died here. People Stiles might know.

“We'd better get a move on,” Danny says, gently guiding him by the elbow toward the grocer’s home, which sits mostly undamaged. Master Jacob is closing shop, and notices Danny before he can try to knock on the door, twisted on its hinges.

“Oh good, you’ve brought the slut.” He sneers at Stiles like he's the dirtiest thing he's ever seen, like he isn't going to be shouting Stiles' name by the end of the night. “Come back in the morning, Danny.”

“Mistress Harris asked me to wait,” Danny says, firmly. “That was our arrangement.”

Stiles feels a rush of gratitude, the knot that had slowly been forming in his stomach unraveling. He feels oddly wrong-footed, unused to doing his work away from the brothel, or maybe shaken by the destruction surrounding them, or the feeling of being watched by the werewolf soldiers in the square.

Master Jacob chuckles, but it’s not a friendly sound. His fingers are in Stiles hair, tugging him inside. “Suit yourself. But don’t think you can stay in my house. You’ll wait outside, or in the tavern if you aren’t stupid.”

Danny looks frustrated, and opens his mouth as if to argue, but Stiles frowns, mouths a “No” only Danny can see. This is too important to make a scene and Stiles will be fine.

Master Jacob doesn’t even bother trying to shut the broken door. He leads Stiles by the hair and up the stairs till they’ve reached his bedroom on the second floor. Stiles doesn’t need instructions when it comes to Master Jacob, he knows him well enough. He toes off his shoes, strips himself of his tunic, and kneels.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, _whore_?” His boot nudges Stiles’ back, and Stiles lowers his forehead to the floor. "I hear you've developed a taste for wolf cock."

“Yes, Master,” he says, and braces himself for a long night.


End file.
